by John Legg
Guthrie quickly pulled out two more sticks of dynamite and chucked them. Again one landed in a fire and one missed. He had one left in his shirt, which he would hold back as a reserve. He drew his big Remington just as the first one that had landed in a fire exploded.
Apaches leaped up, shouting in alarm, searching frantically for the source of the attack. Guthrie laid the barrel of the Remington across his left forearm and fired. The bullet hit a stick of dynamite on the ground. The explosion killed two Apaches straight off and knocked another flying off into the brush.
Several Apaches headed for their horses, and Guthrie’s two companions opened fire, cutting down three of them. At the same time, the second stick of dynamite that had landed in a fire blew, flattening several more Apaches.
The Indian camp became an abattoir then, as blood was spilled fast and furiously. Powder smoke, dust, and fire smoke coiled up into the night sky. Men roared and screamed, horses whinnied frantically, and gunfire popped hotly and steadily. Guthrie aimed at the last stick of dynamite and shot that one, too. The explosion added to the cacophony and the confusion.
Then, just as suddenly as it had started, it ended. Silence seemed strange after the noise of moments ago, but the men quickly adjusted.
Espinoza started to move into the camp, until he froze at Guthrie’s sharp, “No!” He looked back at Guthrie, worried.
“Make sure your piece is reloaded, boy,” Guthrie said harshly. “If any of those Apaches are still alive, you’ll be dead before you know it.” Guthrie glanced at Valencia, but the old man was already reloading his second pistol.
Guthrie reloaded both his Remingtons. Then he said, “All right, boys, let’s go. But mind you check all those bastards closely. If you got any doubts about any of ’em, plug him again. If he’s alive, it’ll kill him. If he ain’t, it ain’t gonna hurt him none.” He stepped into the camp.
The coup de grace was not needed on any of the Apaches. But Guthrie counted only nine bodies. He hurried to where he had seen one of the Indians get flung into the brush by an explosion. No one was there. Guthrie stood very still and listened. He thought he could hear someone making his way through the woods, but he could not be sure.
“You want we should go find him, Señor Guthrie?” Espinoza asked.
“No,” Guthrie said after a moment. “It might even be better this way. If there’s one out there alive, he’ll make it back to the others and tell them what’s happened here. That’ll help scare ’em out of here. I hope.”
He surveyed the carnage. It was not a nice sight, but he had seen—and caused—worse. It was unpleasant but necessary. It still left a sour taste in Guthrie’s mouth. “We’d better hit that other camp before this one passes the word.”
They hurried through the woods back to their horses. Flinging themselves into the saddles, they raced off, through the center of town. The hoofbeats echoed eerily off the surrounding mountains.
Once again the three men stopped about a quarter of a mile from the Apache camp. As they dismounted, Guthrie got a good look at Espinoza. He grabbed the young man by the arm. “I don’t like what I see in your eyes, boy,” he said harshly.
Espinoza’s lids narrowed in anger.
“You want trouble, boy, I’ll be glad to oblige you,” Guthrie snapped. “But if you’re going against another Apache camp alongside me, you’ll do it right. You’re overconfident, boy, and that’s scary. You think because we took that other camp so easily that takin’ this one is gonna be a cakewalk. Well it ain’t. Such an attitude’s a good way to get yourself—or us—killed. You want to kill yourself, boy, I ain’t gonna stop you. But when you’re puttin’ me and Victorio in danger, that’s another story.”
“These Apaches ain’t so tough,” Espinoza sneered, accent more pronounced in his anger and contempt. “Hell, if they were even half as tough as people like to believe, we’d never have gotten near their camp.”
“It was that same attitude on their part—not thinkin’ us white men were worthy opponents— that led to their downfall. But this camp will have heard the ruckus and will be on the alert. This is gonna be the dangerous one, boy.” He released the young man’s arm.
Valencia stepped up and fired off a rapid string of Spanish at Espinoza, who finally nodded. He calmed down considerably, and seemed almost shaky. “I’m sorry, Señor Guthrie,” he said quietly.
“De nada, boy. You all right now?”
“Sí.”
“Bueno. Let’s go.”
Chapter Sixteen
It took even longer for Guthrie, Valencia, and Espinoza to make their way to a spot where they could overlook the Apache camp. In addition to their trying to be extra wary, since the Apaches would be alert now, Valencia was slowing down. Age was catching up to the Mexican, and he shuffled along slowly.
But finally they were at a spot where they could watch the Apaches. A dozen warriors sat or stood around one fire, talking in their guttural language. Guthrie had no idea what they were saying, but he did sort of like the fact that they were grouped together. It should make his—and his companions’— job easier.
Trouble was, the fire was just a little too far away for an easy toss of a stick of dynamite. Plus so many warriors standing around the fire would get in the way of any throw. Guthrie stood, thinking, worrying over the problem even as he worried over the molar.
He finally decided that the direct approach was best. Dawn was not far off, and he was getting tired of all this. He had no wish to die, but he knew that a certain amount of daring was necessary. That daring might also be enough to keep him alive for the few moments he would need to do his job.
With a nod of decision, he silently directed Valencia and Espinoza. When they were in position, Guthrie took a deep breath and pulled the Remington. From inside his shirt, he took a stick of dynamite. He had four left there, his supply replenished from the small box of the explosives on the mule. Then he stepped out from the cover of the trees.
In the dark shadows, he was not seen. He stopped at what he thought was a safe distance from the fire. Thumbing back the Remington’s hammer caused a mild stir, but the Apaches appeared to settle down almost immediately, unaware of any danger. Guthrie brought the pistol up and fired, shooting the Apache directly in front of him in the back. He swung a bit to the right and shot another.
Before the other warriors could react, Guthrie flipped the stick of dynamite. It landed dead center in the fire. One of the Apaches yelled something as Guthrie fired at another Indian. As Guthrie turned to dive back into the cover of the trees, all hell broke loose.
The dynamite went off with a roar muffled slightly by the bodies still standing around the blaze. It gave Guthrie an added impetus as he dived for the trees. He skidded along the dirt until he slammed into a ponderosa pine. He grunted as pain stabbed through his shoulder. But he scrambled up and swung to face the Apache camp. An Indian was rushing toward him. He fired twice and then the Apache plowed into him.
Guthrie shoved the Apache off him, ready to beat the Indian’s brains out, if necessary. But the warrior was dead, and he rolled heavily off and into the brush at Guthrie’s insistent push. Guthrie realized he was covered with the Indian’s blood, but he could not worry about that now. He swung to face the camp again, peering out around a tree.
The only activity he saw now was a lone Apache lashing a horse hard down a barely discernible path heading northeast into the forest. Guthrie jumped out from behind the trees and fired the last shot in his Remington at the fleeing horseman. He did not think he hit the Indian.
Espinoza and Valencia, who had begun firing at Apaches as soon as the dynamite had exploded, stepped into the circle of firelight. Valencia seemed to have gained his second wind. He walked with an almost sprightly step around the camp, checking over Apaches. With a look of almost pleasure, he placed the muzzle of his revolver against the head of a moaning warrior and calmly pulled the trigger.
Guthrie looked at the Mexican in surprise. Valencia grinned, but there wa
s no humor in it. “Apaches keeled my family,” he said simply.
Guthrie nodded in understanding.
The others were dead. Guthrie reloaded the Remington, feeling half dead inside. Tiredness rode on him like an ill-made saddle. And there was something more—an undefinable fatigue born of disgust and regret at all the bloodshed. He had been so sure earlier that the action he had taken this dark and dangerous night would solve the Apache problem for the town of Bonito. But now, standing amid the carnage he had wrought, he was no longer quite so sure.
He stood dully, watching with mostly unseeing eyes as Espinoza wandered about the camp, stamping out small blazes that had been scattered when the dynamite exploded in the fire. The young Mexican had seen a town once that had been swept up by a rampaging forest fire. He had no desire to see Bonito suffer the same fate. '
Once he was sure all the little sparks and smoldering chunks of wood were out, he walked off and brought up the three horses and the mule. When Espinoza got back to the camp, Valencia was sitting on a log, resting; Guthrie was still standing with a blank, almost stricken look on his face. Espinoza wondered about the Anglo gunman. Guthrie was as hard a man as Espinoza had ever seen when danger was at hand. But then he seemed to go into a funk afterward. Espinoza did not understand it, and it worried him.
But he had more important things on his mind now. He was hungry. So tensed up by the thought of the danger he knew he had faced, he had skipped his supper last night. So he started a pot of coffee going. Then he scouted the camp, looking for edibles and cooking utensils. He found a pan and began frying bacon. In a pot, he set beans boiling. Then he sat back to wait for his breakfast.
Guthrie began to come out of his depression. He wiped his palms on his pants. It was always thus for him. He was cool and calm amid the raging of the battle, but afterward he would find his hands coated with sweat and often a melancholy settling over him. He shook himself free of the dregs of the feeling. He looked around the camp, as if fixing it in his mind. He noted with satisfaction the coffee, bacon, and beans on the fire. He sat near Espinoza and silently rolled a cigarette. He lit it with a stick from the fire.
By the time he had tossed the butt into the fire, the coffee was ready. And. soon after, the food. The three men ate in the midst of almost a dozen bloody bodies, oblivious to them.
Afterward, they kicked dirt over the fire and poured, the last of the coffee from the pot over that. They left everything else there and mounted their horses. Valencia seemed to have become almost young again with the rest and the food.
They followed the path the lone Apache had followed earlier, until it cut the road that led into Bonito. They turned toward town, riding slowly, in no hurry. Dawn was breaking, bringing a refreshing newness to the world. Just before the beginning of Center Street, Guthrie stopped. His two companions pulled up alongside him.
“I hope our little adventure tonight has given the ’Paches the inclination to leave these parts. It’s why we risked our necks.” He sighed and looked around, relishing the coolness of the morning and the smell of the dew. “But I ain’t sure it’s worked. We go ridin’ into town, there’s liable to be a passel of angry ’Paches sittin’ up on those hills just waitin’ to gun our asses down.”
Valencia shrugged. He was too old to worry about such things. Besides, after all they had been through this long night, the Apaches no longer held any fear for him.
But Espinoza was uncertain. “What do you suggest?” he asked, hoping the worry did not show in his voice.
“I suggest we mosey on up the ridge and see if there’s any Apaches left. At least that way, if there’s Apaches still about, we’ll be on something of an equal footin’ with ’em. I don’t cotton to bein’ backshot from two hundred yards by somebody. If they’re gonna kill me, I’d rather they tried it close up and face to face.”
Espinoza grinned. “Me too,” he said eagerly. With relief, he had realized that he did not fear dying so much as he did dying without being able to fight back.
“Victorio?” Guthrie asked.
The old Mexican shrugged. He was still filled with enthusiasm after the night’s work.
“Then let’s go.” Guthrie turned left on to a ragged, meandering track. Someone had once labeled it—in hope, Guthrie wondered? Or in lunacy? — Pine Street. It twisted and wandered, swung down through washes and up little rocky outcroppings. Except for the twists, Pine Street went almost straight south from Center Street. It narrowed and kept narrowing, until it was little more than a simple path that climbed up the ridge that overlooked the town.
By the time the three men had made it to the flat ridge, daylight was full on them, and the heat was rising. But they found the ridge unoccupied.
Guthrie rode to the edge and looked down. It was not all that far to the town. He could clearly see his small fortress of fur bales directly across from him. He could see the spot where Marshal Fred Claver had fallen. He pulled out his telescope and scrutinized Corrizo Hill across from him. He saw no movement, and he breathed a sigh of relief.
“Reckon we did our job, boys,” Guthrie said. There was no joy in his voice, though he would admit to a small amount of satisfaction. “Now let’s go get us some sleep.”
Guthrie led the way into Bonito, down another trail that led to what was the beginning of Bonito Street. They were not prepared for the reception they received.
It seemed like the entire town had turned out and was waiting on the plaza for them. Guthrie was embarrassed by all the hoopla, and then angered. These were the same people—or the men, at least—who had refused so steadfastly to help him, Espinoza, and Valencia. The three had risked their lives because no one else had the courage to do so. And yet here they were, cheering on the three men as some conquering heroes.
Guthrie spotted a grinning Mayor Paul Eakins, and grew even angrier. He glared at the town official. But then he looked up and saw Addie standing at the window, smiling at him. He nodded his head once, acknowledging her. Then he growled at the crowd and tried to force his horse through the mob, hoping to make his way toward Diaz’s Livery.
Guthrie glanced over his shoulder. Valencia and Espinoza were in the midst of the shouting mob, basking in the glow of their newfound heroship. Guthrie grinned. He didn’t mind if his two companions enjoyed it; they had risked their lives and deserved all the adulation they could get. He reached out and grabbed the rope to the mule. Winking at Espinoza, who relinquished the mule, Guthrie kicked his horse.
Slowly, gradually, he began making progress, and before long, he was beyond the fringe of people and trotting up Center Street. He turned right at Corrizo Street and was at the livery in minutes. He just hoped Diaz was around—and not celebrating with the rest of the mob. Guthrie had no desire to tend to his horse and the mule after all he had been through. He wanted simply another breakfast, a cigarette, and the companionship of his wife in the quiet and solitude of their room.
He was in luck. Juan Diaz strolled out of the cavernous stable and grinned a gap-tooth smile at Guthrie. “Welcome, Señor Guthrie,” he said joyfully. He might have too much work to do to be down at the plaza, but that did not mean he did not feel the joy of the rest of the townsfolk.
“Juan,” Guthrie said wearily, dismounting.
Diaz realized how tired Guthrie must be and he jumped forth to take the horse’s reins. “You are done in, señor,” he said in sympathy.
“It’s been a long night, Juan,” Guthrie acknowledged with a wan smile.
“I’ll see to your horse. And my—well, your— mule, señor. They will have the best. Hay, oats, the best brushing. Don’ you fear about that.”
“Gracias, Juan,” Guthrie said. He pulled his rifles from the scabbards. He looked at the saddlebags, but then shrugged. There was nothing in them he needed. He could leave them here. “Adiós.”
“Adiós, Señor Guthrie.” Diaz led the two animals away as Guthrie shuffled slowly out of the yard and onto Corrizo Street. He straightened his shoulders as he neared Center S
treet, lest anyone be looking for him. But he decided right away to try to avoid the crowd as much as possible. .
Guthrie crossed Center Street, glancing up toward the plaza. The celebration was still going on. He slipped into an alley between the Thistle Saloon and an empty building once used as a land office. Beyond the buildings, he wandered through several other alleys, making his way slowly northward. He finally came up behind the hotel and slipped through the bare wisp of an alley between it and the restaurant. With the attention of everyone in the plaza diverted, he slid quietly along the front wall of the hotel and then ducked in the front door. Mercifully, Brocius was not there. Guthrie assumed the hotel owner was celebrating with the others.
With the weariness growing heavier with each step, Guthrie plodded up the stairs. His spirits revived when he saw Addie waiting for him in the open doorway of their room. She smiled brightly.
The rapping on the door was quiet and respectful. Guthrie rested his hand on the butt of his Remington. He was sitting in the chair by the window, facing the door. He was enjoying the play of shadow and light brought by the coming dawn on the plaza. “Who is it?” he called.
“Mayor Eakins.”
Guthrie pulled the Remington and set it on the table, winking at Addie across the table. “Come in.”
Eakins entered. His smile froze on his face when he saw the pistol on the table, within easy reach of Guthrie’s hand. He gulped. “A word with you, Mr. Guthrie?” he asked.
With a wave of his hand, Guthrie indicated the chair that Addie had just vacated.
Chapter Seventeen
Eakins was uncomfortable under the glare of Guthrie’s hard blue eyes. He was not sure he wanted to be here, nor was he certain of the wisdom of doing what he was here to do. But the good citizens of Bonito had spoken, and he, as a public servant, could only but listen and obey.
